


Fake blood is not a Halloween costume

by CatLovePower



Category: Lethal Weapon (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Early in Canon, Gen, Halloween, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 19:17:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21258305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: Martin Riggs had a reputation of being unpredictable and wild, so when he crashed Murtaugh’s Halloween party, looking very drunk and covered in blood, no one really questioned it.





	Fake blood is not a Halloween costume

In a delightful twist of fate, Roger Murtaugh managed to get the house all to himself for Halloween night. The kids were each at a different party – under adult supervision, but not his – and Trish was with her mom for the week, taking a break from being a lawyer and a mother, while her own parents cooed over their little one. It was only logical for him to invite a few buddies over, for drinks and cigars – and yes, it was against doctor’s orders, but no one had to know.

Invitations were sent – very sneakily – and Murtaugh must have been out of his mind because he even added that people could come wearing a costume. He hated disguises – that was for actors and bank robbers, but the Halloween spirit, and seeing the kids prepare their own costumes might have gone to his head. That, or he needed to talk about his doc to adjust his meds. 

“No, Riggs is not invited,” he told a friend on the phone, for what felt like the hundredth time, while he was trying to decide what to wear. 

“That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” was the usual reply, but Murtaugh could hear relief in their voice, every time. 

To be perfectly honest, he didn’t really know what Riggs’ stand on Halloween was, but he could imagine it wasn’t his favorite holiday. Bloody injuries everywhere, and happy kids running about, two of the things that were bound to trigger Riggs into some shenanigans as he pretended he was fine, and not affected by the recent death of his very pregnant wife. No, Riggs would only bring the mood down, Murtaugh told himself. He could check on him the next day.

In the end, he went as a dead man walking, with a classy suit and a very fake knife seemingly going through his head. Several friends started arriving, as he was setting the drinks and getting the barbecue going. It was still warm enough to spend the night in the backyard, where a few pumpkins carved by his kids were the only decoration. Murtaugh felt bad about it for a second, before shrugging because Halloween was just a pretext after all, and soon they’ll all be telling gruesome tales of past cases and risky arrests.

More and more people arrived, old buddies and current co-workers; no kids, no guns. People teased him about the decoration and his very minimal costume, but the atmosphere was relaxed, and Murtaugh felt good, better than he had in weeks. Riggs was bad for his health, it seemed; even if it was true that a work day with him was never boring.

And so he was tending to the barbecue, humming a little tune, when he heard some noise coming from the front door. People arguing, which wasn’t cool at all. He told the nearest person to keep an eye on the patties and went inside the house, still wearing his “kiss the chef” apron and holding tongs. 

“Dude, you’re not even invited!” someone was telling the party crasher at the door. 

“He’s drunk,” another remarked. 

“Go home, Riggs,” the first one insisted. 

Murtaugh sighed heavily and made his way through, until he was face to face with a very drunk Riggs, leaning heavily on the doorframe. He looked bad, like he had crawled out of a dumpster; his eyes were glassy and he reeked of cheap booze. And what did that idiot use for his costume? A reddish substance was coating his hair, and most of his clothes; that fake blood looked disgustingly wet. There was no way he could drive home in that state, Murtaugh realized.

“Let him through,” he said, feeling resigned. “He can crash on the couch until he’s slept it off.” 

There was some grumbling, but people let him pass, and Riggs all but tumbled into the living room. Murtaugh threw a plaid on the couch and went back to the garden, trying to push Riggs and his sad coping mechanisms out of his mind.

All was fine, until someone decided to put some music. That must have woken Riggs up, because next thing they knew, he was bolting through the room, staggering and pushing people away, looking frantic.

“Wow, look at his costume,” someone said. “The blood looks so real!” 

And Murtaugh had enough; he was okay with Riggs making a fool of himself and then snoring on the couch, but not with him getting compliments for looking like a murdered hobo. It couldn’t have taken that much effort anyway. So he walked up to his partner, trying not to get angry.

“Riggs, what the hell?” Murtaugh exclaimed, when Riggs nearly slugged him in the face after a light tap on the shoulder.

He put a hand on the younger man’s arm, trying to steady him. He was starting to feel uneasy about the whole thing, as if he was missing something, but he still tried to save face and laugh it off, because he could sense eyes were on them. 

“What did you do, bathe in pig’s blood?” he asked a very confused looking Riggs. “Who are you supposed to be anyway?” he continued with a small laugh.

But Riggs’s eyes were glassy, and he failed to respond. He looked like he was trying to say something, but his mouth refused to work. He kept swallowing convulsively, and blinking as if the lights were blinding. The loud music was certainly not helping if he was drunk; but Murtaugh had already seen drunk Riggs, and it was beginning to look like something else entirely. 

He was about to ask a friend for help, maybe maneuver Riggs into the spare bedroom upstairs, despite the state of his clothes, when the other man all but collapsed. His eyes rolled up in his head, and Murtaugh had no other warning before he had a very heavy, very unconscious man on his arms. Oof, Riggs looked skinny but he wasn’t light.

And so he tried to haul him up, passing a slack arm around his shoulders, because there was no way he was throwing his back out and carrying him. Everything was sticky, and from up close, his disguise looked painfully real. The fake blood in his hair smelt coppery, and his clothes were tacky and wet. The uneasy feeling in Murtaugh’s guts grew, while people carried on having fun, either pretending they didn’t see Riggs collapse, or not caring enough to help a drunk colleague. 

He was nearly at the stairs when Riggs started to come to again, shaking his head like he was trying to clear his thoughts. 

“Man, what happened to you?” Murtaugh tried, and he helped him sit on the bottom stairs. “Talk to me, Riggs,” he insisted, using his serious parent voice. 

Riggs made a sound, deep in his throat, but failed to form a sentence, let alone a word. Did that idiot fall and bit his tongue while drinking in his stupid trailer? Murtaugh was about to ask him if he needed them to call an ambulance, when three things happened simultaneously. The front door in his back was kicked in and slammed on the wall, bullets started flying, and Riggs threw himself at Murtaugh, hitting him with full force before lying on top of him. 

Apparently the “no guns” aspect of the party hasn’t been respected, because several cops started shooting at the car driving away in a screeching of tires. Murtaugh heard shouting and then calmer voices barking orders and calling it in. What the hell just happened? He thought, lying on the hard floor, and wondering if he hurt his head on the way down. 

He tried to push Riggs away, telling him to just move already, but the other man was a dead weight. That sent warning bells through his aching skull, and he raised a shaky hand to feel for a pulse. Riggs’s throat was slick with sweat and blood, and Murtaugh hoped he hadn’t taken a bullet meant for him because the guilt would suck. 

Then someone was pulling at Riggs, rolling him over and offering Murtaugh a hand. He sat up, still dazed, and realized belatedly that there was a man on his front lawn, sprawled on the grass with a bullet in his chest. What the hell? He stared at the semi automatic weapon lying on the ground next to the dead gangster’s hands, before looking at Riggs. He was lying on his back now, unnaturally still. 

“What happened?” 

“I think he just saved my life?” Murtaugh winced when he heard how shaky he sounded.

“Was he hit?” 

That was Murtaugh’s first guess as well, but now he wasn’t so sure anymore. He knelt next to Riggs and started pulling at his dirty clothes – not a costume – trying to see where the blood – not fake – was coming from. When he reached his collarbone, his hand came back wet and glistening red, and he swore, because that was not a bullet wound. 

“I think,” he said, “I think he was stabbed.”

There was a chorus of “what?” and “when?” behind him, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore. He had his palm pressed to Riggs shoulder, just above the collarbone, and he wasn’t planning on letting go until EMTs arrived and Riggs was taken care of. 

He still smelt like booze, Murtaugh thought, but now he wasn’t so sure he had ingested any. If it wasn’t for the men who tried to kill them just now, he would have guessed bar fight turned bloody, during which Riggs was stabbed with a broken bottle. But they’ll need him to wake up to be sure, and that would let Murtaugh some time to think of an apology.

The ride to the hospital was a blur. Too many barked orders and beeping noises, not enough fight from Riggs. Murtaugh had let go a while ago, and now he sat in a corner of the moving vehicle, crumpled suit caked with dried blood and fake knife now around his neck. They were concerned about a possible concussion, but Murtaugh couldn’t care less, as he stared at the heart monitor they hooked Riggs to. Too fast, like his own heart right now. 

Reports started to come in as he was waiting in an impersonal hallway. Someone had given him a white sweatshirt, and the skin of his hands felt raw because he had scrubbed them for a while in the hospital bathroom.

“Local gang,” the reports said. “About hundred bullets, partial plates, no real lead, apart from the dead guy.”

“Did you receive threats?” they asked, because they had to, but everyone believed Riggs was the real target, even if no one was telling it to his face. Not with Riggs hanging by a thread under a surgeon’s hands, somewhere behind the doors he wasn’t allowed to pass.

Hours, and too many cups of bad coffee later, a tired looking doctor came out of the forbidden doors, looking for “family of Martin Riggs,” and Murtaugh stood up, feeling self conscious in his borrowed clothes.

She didn’t give him any bullshit about not being his next of kin, and started to explain, in terms way too medical for Murtaugh’s tired mind, that his partner has been bleeding for a while, was touch and go, flatlined once but was still kicking as they spoke. Words like “serrated blade” and “nicked clavicle” stood out and Murtaugh felt sick.

“Can I see him?” he asked.

“Only for a short while,” the doctor said. “He probably won’t wake up,” she added, and Murtaugh didn’t contradict her, even if he knew Riggs and drugs didn’t go hand in hand and often yielded unpredictable results.

The room was dimly lit, and Riggs was clean and way too pale, his hair comically brushed to one side. The long curls were no longer mattered with blood and sweat and who knows what else. How could he have thought it was just a costume? How could he have thought Riggs would spend Halloween partying, instead of finding trouble at the hands of a gang?

He sat down on the flimsy chair next to the bed and looked at the heart monitor. This time the rhythm was deep and slow, like it should be. He sighed, and wondered if the police was still at his house, trampling his front lawn and outlining a body.

Time passed and none came back to tell him he needed to go, so Murtaugh fell asleep, folded in the uncomfortable chair. He had his feet on the bed, careful not to disturb his partner. 

“I’m sorry,” Riggs rasped first thing when he woke up.

That was out of character, and it made little sense, so Murtaugh told him so. It must be the anesthesia messing with his brain, he thought, but Riggs insisted, repeating that he was sorry, so sorry.

“I shouldn’t have come. I led them to your house. What if the kids had been there?” Riggs rambled, his eyes glistening like there were tears in them. 

“You were bleeding out,” Murtaugh said, not voicing how relieved he was that the kids weren’t home. He hasn’t even thought about that possibility, and now he wasn’t sure he would be sleeping ever again. 

“Not an excuse,” Riggs mumbled. He started fiddling with the various wires sticking to his chest and taking the ox monitor off his finger.

“I’m pretty sure it is,” Murtaugh said, before pressing the call button and trying to stop Riggs from taking out the IV snaking into the crook of his arm. “And I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t touch that.” 

“Do I want to know what happened?” Murtaugh asked, after the nurse came and went, sternly repeating what he said about not touching anything. 

Riggs threw him a dark look, and ran his free hand through his hair. “Believe it or not, it wasn’t my fault.”

“You were accidentally stabbed by a gang member, who then decided to follow you and shoot at you?” Murtaugh raised an eyebrow.

“I might have stumbled across an ongoing crime,” Riggs admitted.

Murtaugh stayed silent, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“And I might have tried to stop them all by myself,” Riggs concluded.

He had the decency to look sheepish, but Murtaugh knew he would do it all over again given the chance. Riggs was a trouble magnet, a crime detector despite himself. Murtaugh just hoped next time he wouldn’t crawl somewhere and die alone just because he felt like he shouldn’t endanger him. That’s what partners were for. 

“Well, as soon as you’re up, you’re helping me repaint the hall and repair the front door,” Murtaugh said.

“Deal,” Riggs huffed, and he fell back against the hospital pillows, scratching at the white bandages around his throat.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from the whump Discord.


End file.
